


solitary

by toastyhyun



Series: VIXX GTA!AU [4]
Category: VIXX
Genre: GTA AU, check the tws, the rest of vixx are mentioned in passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastyhyun/pseuds/toastyhyun
Summary: Taekwoon is built from the ground up to be a part of the Jung family: silent, solid, and unbreakable -- but he's pushed and pushed until he breaks regardless, and Hakyeon is left to pick up his pieces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written in so long oOP S s
> 
> anywyas here's taek's background and stuff. there's platonic neo and nhyuk if you squint?? also descriptions of abuse, violence, and murder, so be careful
> 
> pls note this is part of a nonlinear series so if u wanna know more about the other vixx members etc then. Check It OUt, ,, ((i also have nhyuk and nhyuken in the works i promise ill get them done eventually. probably, ,,opops))

Taekwoon can’t breathe. He feels like he’s being pushed from all sides, boxed in by the people around him, asking, demanding, controlling at their own leisure. His frame is small with his age and his lungs are even smaller, shoulders bunching up around his ears before he’s covering them and screaming, as loud as he can, crouching down with his eyes squeezed shut and shouting his throat raw until they all leave and give him space.

 

He stops when his vocal chords smart even at just an inhale, throbbing, damaged from the shredding his shrieks have given to them. He’s started crying without realizing it, cheeks wet and eyes stinging as he opens them, shaky fingers pulling up and off of his ears to brave the deafening silence that greets him. He stands, knees wobbling beneath him and hands shaking, meeting the gaze of his father as he stands before him.

 

“Taekwoon,” he says, and his voice is gravelly and as hateful and painfully calculated as the hand he rears back, “ _never again_.”

 

\---

 

The Jung family is not one to tolerate anything but perfect order in their business, disciplining their employees for even the slightest mistake in their outfit, in how they hold themselves, in how their weapons fit in their hands. Their young son, Jung Taekwoon, is not an exception.

 

Where his sister, Jihye succeeded ten years before him in growing up perfectly in order to take over her own section of the empire, Taekwoon fails miserably. He can’t take the suffocation his family brings, the disappointed and nearly despising looks his parents give him every time he so much as twitches when he’s not been instructed to. He smiles too much, they say, betrays too much emotion, and one of his uncles suggests that perhaps he’s just too soft.

 

So they break him. His father has faceless goons take him down into the cellar each night and they pry him apart from the seams, tearing the strings and the fabric of who he is until he’s just a shell of a person, a trembling little thing that is no longer even capable of hating itself as it once had. Then they build him back up in their image -- still, stoic, void of remorse, perfection. His eyes no longer hold anything but the hint of something beneath, a flame struggling, grasping at straws to stay lit, to not be permanently doused.

 

He learns not to smile, not to frown, not to show even the slightest bit of expression when in the face of danger. His aim and accuracy soar and he kills with efficiency, without visible remorse, skyrocketing through the ranks to one of the more coveted guards of the family.

 

He becomes a thing of legend, a mercenary ruthless with his weapons, someone who is known for being unflinching in the face of anything that comes his way. Taekwoon is often sent along on jobs simply as an intimidation factor, because the cold set of his expression is often enough to have smaller groups bowing to the Jung family’s will. 

 

His sister visits once, from her own station in leading one of their many territories, and at first she doesn’t even greet him. Jihye looks him up and down, at the threatening square of his shoulders, the pristine styling of his hair and prim press of his suit lapels, and she scowls, her lips curling into just the slightest of wry, apologetic smiles, “They got to you, huh? I was kind of hoping you’d put up a bigger fight, maybe get away for a bit. Would have made it fun to watch.” 

 

Taekwoon does not smile back.

 

It continues. He grows older, feeling the boy he’d once been slipping farther and farther away through his fingers until he has just the barest of grasps on it, strung so tight that he knows he’s going to snap soon. The struggle Taekwoon has within himself is one that is noticeable in how he can’t sleep anymore and the bags beneath his eyes now, in how his hands shake as he aims to take his shots now, and it isn’t long before his father approaches him. 

 

(Even now, even then, when he was doing everything right, he’s still never seen the smallest bit of pride in those beady, coal eyes. Even now, there’s nothing but contempt, a hint of a sneer inching the corner of his top lip upwards as he gazes upon the son he has created.)

 

“Never again,” he hisses, a reminder, and everything happens so fast after that. 

 

There’s blood, though whether it’s others’ or Taekwoon’s he’s not sure, screaming that seems to come from within himself, gunshots, his hands trembling with the recoil of his weapon ---

 

_“Never again,” the goons say as they lay the whip across his back, never enough to scar him but enough to make him cry, a young boy, screaming for his father, his mother, his sister, for anyone to come save him._

_“Never again,” they spit in his face when he doesn’t hit the target straight on and he’s on the ground, shot with rubber bullets that truly only bruise but may as well pierce with the sheer pain and agony that rips through his spine._

_Never again, never again, never again, he chants to himself, blood on his fingertips, between his teeth and on his tongue, tears tracking his cheeks and falling down onto the unbreathing body beneath him. (His fault, his fault, his fault,_ never again _, he swears.)_

_He’s only a boy, so young, so fragile, taken advantage of in the worst ways, taught to despise everything that he is. Never again, they say, never again will you be allowed to be anything but what we_ want _you to be, never again will you say anything but what we want you to say, never again will you be a boy._

_You are ours, now, you are a Jung. You are ours to shape and ours to make into what we want, you are not a boy, you are not Taekwoon, you are not an individual, you are_ ours _._

_He gasps for air, drowning in the pressure and the abuse until he breaks like they’ve wanted all along, and he buries all that he is to be what they want, to obey, to conform to their wishes. He stands in front of his father, lips pulled into a thin line, shoulders raised and strong, fingers firm against his rifle to keep them from shaking, and he agrees with him,_

_“Never again.”_

 

\-- and when he comes to, his father is an unrecognizable mass of blood, guts and bone, splattered over the floor, the walls, over Taekwoon himself. He’s crying, throat uncomfortably but familiarly sore from the yelling he knows he’s done, ears ringing and the clip of his rifle spent. 

 

It clatters to the floor, echoing off the walls, and he only manages to tear off his suitjacket and the emblem sewn to his shirt to toss both to the floor before he’s bolting, running away from everything he’s ever known toward an unknown, hoping for a promise of something better.

 

\---

 

He knows they’re looking for him, knows he’s on the top of their kill list, their manhunt, knows from experience that no one leaves his family unless it’s in a bodybag. But still he runs, taking bus after train after bus again to get as far away as he can with what little cash he has, leaving no trail behind him to follow.

 

Life is not easy. He knows nothing but what they’ve taught him but he refuses to lay another hand on another firearm, refuses to kill, not at his own hands, not anymore. He panhandles what he can, makes little petty thefts here and there, but it’s barely enough to keep him on the streets and not in a morgue.

 

He can breathe easier but it’s still hard, and he’s still terrified, lungs in his throat and heart jumping each time a car with tinted windows passes him and he can’t tell who’s inside. Taekwoon makes no friends, too afraid, too wary, often too scared to even meet the eyes of the simplest service worker as they hand over his food.

 

It isn’t until Hakyeon comes along that he even so much as thinks of opening up. He needs money, needs at least a little something to be able to get through the week without freezing or starving to death. Winter is approaching quickly and the nights are beginning to chill, so he’s trying to save up to buy at least a few blankets so he won’t die cold.

 

“I don’t really think you want to go in there,” chimes Hakyeon, just as Taekwoon’s fingers are about to slip into his pocket and he seizes in place, heart in his throat upon being caught attempting to steal. The man turns to face him, and his smile is surprisingly sunny for someone who was just nearly pickpocketed. He reaches to draw his jacket back just a little, enough to reveal the handle of something Taekwoon will never not be able to recognize sticking from his waistband, and he physically recoils at the sight of the pistol.

 

“Don’t worry,” the then-stranger reassures, letting the jacket fall and raising his hands to watch as Taekwoon visibly deflates, tension bleeding out from his shoulders. He bites his lip, seemingly conflicted, before turning sideways to gesture down the sidewalk in the way he had been walking, “Do you want me to buy you lunch, mister…?”

 

“Taekwoon,” he offers, hesitant, voice quiet, facial muscles twitching only slightly when Hakyeon grins at him and begins to travel once more. He follows, timid and unsure, and eats what is given to him with the hunger of a thousand men, letting the other speak as much as he wants throughout the meal for favour of shoveling everything he can down his throat as quickly as he can.

 

Later, when they part ways that first day, Hakyeon gives him his jacket, no matter how much he tries to protest nonverbally, hands shaking and mouth shaping unspoken refusal. Hakyeon only smiles that big, toothy, bright smile of his and shakes his head, draping it over Taekwoon’s shoulders with careful fingers and leaving.

 

Checking the pockets later, Taekwoon somehow isn’t surprised to find a billfold of cash inside. His lack of surprise doesn’t stop the tears from burning at his eyes, though, and it takes a lot to keep them from spilling over. The money is enough to keep him fed and get him a hotel room for the snowy nights for about a week and a half, but it dwindles and just as he begins to worry and begins to eye the ladies on the street for their purses once more, Hakyeon returns.

 

He comes back, again and again, and he’s what keeps Taekwoon afloat for a small while. He wants to look for work, but he has no papers, and he’s afraid that if he were to go and get new ones, his family -- at worst, his _mother_ \-- would be able to track him down, and he’d be done for. So he’s stuck in a limbo of depending on an almost stranger for money and wanting to be independent but being unable to, a lump rising in his throat whenever he thinks of how much it feels like he’s taking advantage of Hakyeon’s seemingly bottomless kindness.

 

A little over three months after that first visit, Hakyeon returns without his smile, with a little crease between his brow. Taekwoon asks quietly, concerned, what’s wrong, and when Hakyeon meets his eyes they’re a little harder than usual, his voice distant, “You’re Jung Taekwoon, right? The Jung’s Silent Mercenary?”

 

His blood runs cold immediately and his hands begin to tremble, swamped in the fabric of a jacket Hakyeon had once bought for him. It feels once more like his lungs are being compressed, squished, his breath coming only in short, stuttered puffs as he struggles not to erupt. ( _Never again, never again, never again, nev--_ )

 

“Hey,” continues Hakyeon, voice soft, the hints of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he reaches out and gently sets a hand on Taekwoon’s shoulder. He only just manages not to flinch away, terror struggling to play on his face as he himself fights to keep it back as an instinctive approach to his emotions. “I’m not going to hurt you. I wanted to invite you to come live with me.”

 

“I don’t do that anymore,” he barely manages to choke the words out past the convulsions of his throat, stomach churning and tossing and he’s ready to throw up. “I don’t--- I only killed for them, I won’t---” He gasps softly, shrinking in on himself, terrified, so terrified, feeling like the little boy being dragged down into the basement all over again, and then Hakyeon is pulling him into his arms and hugging him tight.

 

“You won’t have to,” he murmurs, hands running through Taekwoon’s hair as he holds him down and into his chest, despite being the shorter of the two. Absently, as if someone else had the thought, Taekwoon realizes this is the first hug he’s had in at least a decade. “It’s okay, Taekwoonie. We’ll find something else for you to do.”

 

Never again, he whispers, just to himself, mouthing the words against Hakyeon’s shirt. A reminder.

 

\---

 

He arrives and he’s surprised at how normal the penthouse feels. It’s large, it’s lived in, and it feels more like a home than the Jung household ever had even just by spending a few moments inside. Hakyeon shows him his room, tells him that the kitchen is open to him whenever, and smiles.

 

“Shower and sleep,” he instructs, and there’s enough authority in his voice that Taekwoon simply gives a curt nod on reflex, stepping into the bathroom attached to the bedroom he’s been giving and washing with efficiency before slipping into the sleep clothes that have been lain across his bed and falling asleep easily.

 

For the first time in a long while, he sleeps soundly, uninterrupted by outside forces nor nightmares, and wakes feeling less on edge than he has in years. He changes back into his own clothes before stepping out into the main area of the penthouse, taking a deep breath of the open space and marvelling at how freeing this feels, to be somewhere where he’s welcome.

 

At least, that is, until someone extremely tall and broad emerges from a room in all black, a semi auto rifle in hand, and any sense of security he’d had disappears in a flash. 

 

He fumbles for his gun at his hip before remembering he no longer carries one and trips over his feet in a panicked hurry to get away, breath whistling rapidly through his teeth as he crashes over the couch and bangs against the coffee table as he tumbles. He fumbles, struggles to get up, crawling back and clawing at the carpet and he’s about to scream for help, for mercy, for anything, when the black clad figure, with wide eyes, calls for Hakyeon.

 

Hakyeon comes running, and upon seeing Taekwoon on the floor, defensive, and the stranger’s gun, quickly takes it from him and holds it off to the side, hand far away from the trigger. “It’s fine! It’s okay,” he shouts first and then speaks, quietly, shooting a glare to the person at his side. “This is Sanghyuk. We work together. He doesn’t mean you any harm, Taekwoonie, I promise.”

 

Sanghyuk offers a little smile, apology in his eyes, and now that Taekwoon isn’t in a flurry trying to get away, he can see the casual dress of his clothes. His sleeves hang over his wrists, his jeans are too tight to run in, and his hair flops over his eyes until he brushes it away. “Sorry,” he says, voice thick, teeth worrying at his lip. Taekwoon doesn’t miss the way Hakyeon’s eyes follow the movement, “I didn’t mean to scare you, I thought you were still sleeping.”

 

He’s young, Sanghyuk. Still a teenager, or at least freshly an adult, by the looks of it, and Taekwoon worries. He worries and frets because Sanghyuk is _so_ young, and Sanghyuk has so many choices of what he could do, but he’s here, and he’s taking this path, and Taekwoon is scared for him.

 

It isn’t until they bring him along on one of their small time jobs that he understands why. He’s in their nearby getaway van, pistol a foot or two away just in case, watching the cameras and keeping the comms online and private, not yet quite ready to be out in the field yet again. (He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be.) 

 

It’s just a simple plot of Hakyeon’s, wanting to hurt another small group’s standing a little in order to bring their own worth up, as he has told both Sanghyuk and Taekwoon back at the penthouse his dreams: of ruling the city, the three of them, maybe more, of the power they could have, the wealth, the freedom. Taekwoon doesn’t care much about rule, nor power, nor wealth, but the thought of true freedom in plain sight grabs his attention quickly. He wants to be able to leave the penthouse without fear, and if power and rule will bring him to that, he’s all in.

 

Hakyeon and Sanghyuk are speaking, maneuvering around the warehouse they’re breaking into separately but still in sync, and Taekwoon keeps track of the both of them to ensure they aren’t running into danger. There’s a pair of guards a few hallways away from Sanghyuk, and before panic can rise in Taekwoon he quickly informs the younger.

 

On the grainy feed, he watches as the tall boy changes pathways to come up behind them, and he’s messy in his execution, but he gets the two of them down quickly and silently enough before readjusting, murmuring into the mic, “Both down. Back on course.” There’s something underneath the surface of his voice that Taekwoon can’t quite grasp, his fear that Sanghyuk will end up like him consuming him in the moment and simply leaving him fretting, double and triple checking camera feeds as not to lose it.

 

It’s only later, when they both return to the van with assets in hand and soot on their clothes, that he gets it. Hakyeon looks as he always does -- sunny, bright, warm, _happy_ \-- but Taekwoon is surprised, upon looking at Sanghyuk. Where he’d thought perhaps he might be solemn, calculated, like Taekwoon had always presented himself after a job, he’s.. elated. He looks energized, even more so than usual, grinning and bumping shoulders with Hakyeon, joking around, unable to keep his legs from bouncing from where he’s strapped into the backseat as they drive back home.

 

He enjoys this. It’s hard, for Taekwoon to absorb, with how he had felt (still feels) about killing, death while he was Sanghyuk’s age, but it quells that little bit of worry inside him. Hakyeon isn’t forcing Sanghyuk to do anything -- the kid is doing it on his own, he _wants_ to, and that opens up a little dam in Taekwoon to let a lot come flooding through.

 

He tells Hakyeon about it all. The goons, the whipping, the stares, the regulations, the disappointment when he didn’t fulfill them -- Hakyeon holds his hand through it all, guiding him through talking, filling in the gaps with soft suggestions whenever he couldn’t find the words. It feels good, to get it all out, and afterwards he’s left a little emptier, but a lot lighter. 

 

Taekwoon looks at Hakyeon, really looks at him, and he sees someone he can trust. A friend. His first real friend, beyond the children his parents had allowed to play with him as a toddler when he was too young to understand the world he was growing up within. Hakyeon smiles at him like he’s worth something and he finds it easy to smile back, for once, doesn’t have trouble working past the way he’s been trained to suppress it all.

 

He takes a breath and thinks of his family, of all the abuse, and it still stings. He knows the conditioning will take a while to work out of. He knows that the memory of his father’s disapproving stare, his sister’s scowl, the scars that remain on his back, the scene of his father’s death -- those will remain, probably for forever. 

 

But then he thinks of Hakyeon, and Sanghyuk, and later on Wonshik, Hongbin, and Jaehwan, when they begin to crowd the penthouse as well, and he feels nothing but comfort. This is home. This is safety, and even he still isn’t on the grid and still feels nervous from time to time about leaving, he knows that at least one of them will be there for him if he takes a fall. 

 

He may be a Jung, branded for life by birth, memory, and name, but here is where he belongs, and he finds his family instead in the five of them.


End file.
